Every day, there's something interesting to read about. Efforts to help our troops returning from Iraq and Afghanistan makes sense for many reasons.
There are even games that can make a difference when we take care of patients by reducing pain when drugs can't.
We live in an interesting time and I love it!
Stay tuned for more goodies...
Showing posts with label Iraq. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Iraq. Show all posts
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Friday, March 25, 2011
Queen of BBS
Yes, I am old enough to remember this BBS, but I never had a computer to use it while it was in its heyday.
The BBS I'm talking about it is the crux of what we do as rehab nurses. My preceptor G. told me as a young rehab nurse that most of what we do is about "bowel, bladder and skin." Yes, it surely is, and I had a lot of time to discuss these issues with a couple of patients recently.
Eddie is a guy who's had a lot of bad luck. His Hummer was attacked in Iraq and he lost three buddies. He made it out of there with a mild TBI and his life. He recuperated and things were going along nicely, when he was minding his own business driving home one night and ran off the road dodging wildlife in the rural area he lives in. As a result, he became a paraplegic.
He's still young enough to see the bowel routine as a boring routine. And since it becomes a synchronized routine for many patients, you can expect results at about the same time every day or every other day, depending on how you do it. Yes, he had results at his usual time, while he was doing something else he wanted to do. Lots of cleanup followed--to him, the wheelchair and his clothes. He was upset, but I managed everything so in the end, he was laughing. There are worse things...
Happily, while it's been crazy at the Hotel, we've been able to get things done. It's required a lot of teamwork. People feeding other people, people transferring people, people helping vendors bring in new mattresses. I may have only sat down once or twice, but we got things done.
Let's hope it stays that way! Stay tuned...
The BBS I'm talking about it is the crux of what we do as rehab nurses. My preceptor G. told me as a young rehab nurse that most of what we do is about "bowel, bladder and skin." Yes, it surely is, and I had a lot of time to discuss these issues with a couple of patients recently.
Eddie is a guy who's had a lot of bad luck. His Hummer was attacked in Iraq and he lost three buddies. He made it out of there with a mild TBI and his life. He recuperated and things were going along nicely, when he was minding his own business driving home one night and ran off the road dodging wildlife in the rural area he lives in. As a result, he became a paraplegic.
He's still young enough to see the bowel routine as a boring routine. And since it becomes a synchronized routine for many patients, you can expect results at about the same time every day or every other day, depending on how you do it. Yes, he had results at his usual time, while he was doing something else he wanted to do. Lots of cleanup followed--to him, the wheelchair and his clothes. He was upset, but I managed everything so in the end, he was laughing. There are worse things...
Happily, while it's been crazy at the Hotel, we've been able to get things done. It's required a lot of teamwork. People feeding other people, people transferring people, people helping vendors bring in new mattresses. I may have only sat down once or twice, but we got things done.
Let's hope it stays that way! Stay tuned...
Sunday, November 7, 2010
My favorite veterans
Valor is stability, not of legs and arms, but of courage and the soul. ~Michel de Montaigne
Working in the VA has its advantages in finding your very own favorite veteran, since you gotta be one to get in here.
In the short time I've been here at the Hotel Rehab, I've started adding to my list of favorite veterans. First, let me tell you about the war heroes and the major battle veterans. Mr. Z. was injured in a famous battle in Korea. He was a kind soul who brought an old-timer's perspective to his injury. Our newest veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan particularly appreciated his view point. He wasn't preachy, he was just a "give 'em the facts" kind of character, who always used himself as an example.
Mr. A., a large hulk of a man must have surely frightened our foes in the South Pacific theatre during "the big one" as he called World War II. Before he lost limbs to a land mine while on a reconaissance mission, he was a giant of a man, well over six foot four inches tall. He always made us laugh because he always said, "You girls are the best," all the time, much to the chagrin of some of the male staff.
My favorite Marine, I'll call Skippy. Skippy was a grunt in the Corps in Vietnam. Skippy is the party man, even though he's been injured a long time. Skippy's company always finds out when he's in the hospital, via phone, mail and internet, and they show up to see what he's doing. Skippy is a character and has been a regular around our place for a while, and completed an extended stay when I first started. Skippy bonded with one of his roommates, Bob, and they now call each other at least weekly, if not daily. Skippy keeps telling Bob he's going to get a kangaroo and start a private zoo on a few acres he has.
My favorite sailor, was just like my veteran at home--a submariner. Mr. Tom taught me a lot of things and was thrilled to meet another silent service character (Dahey) while he was on the unit. Like Skippy, Mr. Tom's sub crew found him and kept him busy with phone calls, letters, and the occasional visit.
And finally, I'll never forget a couple of characters who are no longer with us. Pitt Phil (a major Steelers fan) was another WWII guy who didn't talk the first week he was with us, due to some trach issues. I remember getting him enthused about getting out of bed when he found out we had a big screen in the patient lounge. He got up every day after that. Mr. Ron yodeled our names whenever we were in the room. If I close my eyes, I can still hear his yodel. We got him all fixed up after a long stay. He went home for a short time, then got sick and died suddenly.
So as my career goes on, my list gets longer. I am honored to be a nurse who gets to call every day a Veteran's day in my job at the Hotel. If you don't have your own special Veteran and want one, go talk to your nearest VA and volunteer your time, talents or treasure. They'll appreciate it.
Working in the VA has its advantages in finding your very own favorite veteran, since you gotta be one to get in here.
In the short time I've been here at the Hotel Rehab, I've started adding to my list of favorite veterans. First, let me tell you about the war heroes and the major battle veterans. Mr. Z. was injured in a famous battle in Korea. He was a kind soul who brought an old-timer's perspective to his injury. Our newest veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan particularly appreciated his view point. He wasn't preachy, he was just a "give 'em the facts" kind of character, who always used himself as an example.
Mr. A., a large hulk of a man must have surely frightened our foes in the South Pacific theatre during "the big one" as he called World War II. Before he lost limbs to a land mine while on a reconaissance mission, he was a giant of a man, well over six foot four inches tall. He always made us laugh because he always said, "You girls are the best," all the time, much to the chagrin of some of the male staff.
My favorite Marine, I'll call Skippy. Skippy was a grunt in the Corps in Vietnam. Skippy is the party man, even though he's been injured a long time. Skippy's company always finds out when he's in the hospital, via phone, mail and internet, and they show up to see what he's doing. Skippy is a character and has been a regular around our place for a while, and completed an extended stay when I first started. Skippy bonded with one of his roommates, Bob, and they now call each other at least weekly, if not daily. Skippy keeps telling Bob he's going to get a kangaroo and start a private zoo on a few acres he has.
My favorite sailor, was just like my veteran at home--a submariner. Mr. Tom taught me a lot of things and was thrilled to meet another silent service character (Dahey) while he was on the unit. Like Skippy, Mr. Tom's sub crew found him and kept him busy with phone calls, letters, and the occasional visit.
And finally, I'll never forget a couple of characters who are no longer with us. Pitt Phil (a major Steelers fan) was another WWII guy who didn't talk the first week he was with us, due to some trach issues. I remember getting him enthused about getting out of bed when he found out we had a big screen in the patient lounge. He got up every day after that. Mr. Ron yodeled our names whenever we were in the room. If I close my eyes, I can still hear his yodel. We got him all fixed up after a long stay. He went home for a short time, then got sick and died suddenly.
So as my career goes on, my list gets longer. I am honored to be a nurse who gets to call every day a Veteran's day in my job at the Hotel. If you don't have your own special Veteran and want one, go talk to your nearest VA and volunteer your time, talents or treasure. They'll appreciate it.
Friday, June 5, 2009
War stories
Yes, there was a lot of storytelling going on during my latest turn on the evening shift. It's kind of funny that way, when you're gone a day or two, and things are really different when you come back.
War stories are common on our unit, since we're a government-run hospital, but how you get the guys and gals to talk, or let them talk can be a whole 'nother story in itself.
One of our more cantankerous folks was rolling by on his way to getting something, so I stopped him and asked if he wanted his pills right now. Sure, he says, I'll take them. We chitchat for a minute and I keep doing my thing. Mr. C. starts talking about his time in the military during the Korean war. "See that scar" he says. Sure, I see it, because I'd just given him his heparin shot. "I got that on my way to Korea. I never made it to the front." I shake my head, therapeutically listen, and he keeps going.
Mr. C. never made it because he had a bad appendix and developed complications. An astute medic pulled him out of the crowd and when they landed in Europe, Mr. C. got a trip to the hospital. The docs didn't want him going too far once he was released, so they found a job there on a base to keep him busy moving supplies along to Korea.
We have also had some World War II vets hanging out with us. One of them was a Marine injured in the Pacific. He's a character and I'm sure his stature alone may have scared more than a few folks in that theatre. I think about some of my relatives when I talk to them, because they'd tell the stories of the war, when I was a child, and my brother and I listened very intently. Most of our relatives who went to World War II came back. One did not. I think of him a lot and the family he left behind.
Maybe it's just because of demographics, but we have lots of Vietnam-era guys at our place, including some of the employees. Lots of folks talk about the jungle and dreams they had while they were there. Some were more premonitions than dreams, but they colored their lives just the same. One guy told me about the lost opportunities from Vietnam--delayed families, deferred education, the bad attitude of some folks that often caused other problems in the jobs they came back to or started after their service. The angst among some who were injured, while other folks their age were in school and never drafted. The volunteers. Some people say, "Who'd volunteer for Vietnam?" and on our unit, you'd actually see some hands, proudly raised, almost defiant. "That was me," one guy told me. "Better to volunteer than be drafted," he thought.
Today, we see some of the Iraq and Afghanistan vets coming in with stories of their own. Swimming at Saddam's place. Guarding air fields in Kuwait. Driving through Afghanistan in the Hindu Kush mountains with snipers everywhere.
And while they're not my words, I leave you with a story I received recently from my husband's old dear friend who is at a southern US air base. His story is a short, but a compelling look at the life of an airman who lost her life recently.
I previously wrote many of you about the presentation of an Air Force Cross, the second highest medal an Airman can receive, next only to the Medal of Honor.
At 1000 yesterday morning, we met in the same hangar, not to pay tribute to a warrior amongst our midst but homage to one who would no longer be physically present with us. SrA Ashton Goodman was a 21 year old (22 next week), from Indianapolis, IN who served as a vehicle operator in the 43d Logistics Readiness Squadron. She had three short years in the AF but had already served as a truck driver, ferrying supplies and personnel from Kuwait into Iraq, been promoted to SrA six months below the zone, and called upon to brief the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
This time she volunteered for a one year tour working with a Provisional Reconstruction Team (PRT) in Afghanistan. SrA Goodman was killed last week when her vehicle was struck by an improvised explosive device (IED). Her funeral was Tuesday in Indianapolis. The Wing took up a collection and flew the family here for yesterday’s memorial.
It started with a slide show presentation, a speech by her squadron commander (it was obvious she had made a positive impact on him and the unit), presentation of the Combat Service Medal and Purple Heart to her parents and several comments from squadron members. One squadron member sang a gospel tune that started eyes watering.
Then came the final roll call. Names of squadron members were called and answered until they came to her, silence. Her name was called again with more silence. Once more, still silence and then her full name followed by a 21 gun salute and taps. I challenge any of you to sit through that with a dry eye or after attending such a ceremony to ever hear taps again without a deeper sense of pride and commitment to those who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.
War stories are common on our unit, since we're a government-run hospital, but how you get the guys and gals to talk, or let them talk can be a whole 'nother story in itself.
One of our more cantankerous folks was rolling by on his way to getting something, so I stopped him and asked if he wanted his pills right now. Sure, he says, I'll take them. We chitchat for a minute and I keep doing my thing. Mr. C. starts talking about his time in the military during the Korean war. "See that scar" he says. Sure, I see it, because I'd just given him his heparin shot. "I got that on my way to Korea. I never made it to the front." I shake my head, therapeutically listen, and he keeps going.
Mr. C. never made it because he had a bad appendix and developed complications. An astute medic pulled him out of the crowd and when they landed in Europe, Mr. C. got a trip to the hospital. The docs didn't want him going too far once he was released, so they found a job there on a base to keep him busy moving supplies along to Korea.
We have also had some World War II vets hanging out with us. One of them was a Marine injured in the Pacific. He's a character and I'm sure his stature alone may have scared more than a few folks in that theatre. I think about some of my relatives when I talk to them, because they'd tell the stories of the war, when I was a child, and my brother and I listened very intently. Most of our relatives who went to World War II came back. One did not. I think of him a lot and the family he left behind.
Maybe it's just because of demographics, but we have lots of Vietnam-era guys at our place, including some of the employees. Lots of folks talk about the jungle and dreams they had while they were there. Some were more premonitions than dreams, but they colored their lives just the same. One guy told me about the lost opportunities from Vietnam--delayed families, deferred education, the bad attitude of some folks that often caused other problems in the jobs they came back to or started after their service. The angst among some who were injured, while other folks their age were in school and never drafted. The volunteers. Some people say, "Who'd volunteer for Vietnam?" and on our unit, you'd actually see some hands, proudly raised, almost defiant. "That was me," one guy told me. "Better to volunteer than be drafted," he thought.
Today, we see some of the Iraq and Afghanistan vets coming in with stories of their own. Swimming at Saddam's place. Guarding air fields in Kuwait. Driving through Afghanistan in the Hindu Kush mountains with snipers everywhere.
And while they're not my words, I leave you with a story I received recently from my husband's old dear friend who is at a southern US air base. His story is a short, but a compelling look at the life of an airman who lost her life recently.
I previously wrote many of you about the presentation of an Air Force Cross, the second highest medal an Airman can receive, next only to the Medal of Honor.
At 1000 yesterday morning, we met in the same hangar, not to pay tribute to a warrior amongst our midst but homage to one who would no longer be physically present with us. SrA Ashton Goodman was a 21 year old (22 next week), from Indianapolis, IN who served as a vehicle operator in the 43d Logistics Readiness Squadron. She had three short years in the AF but had already served as a truck driver, ferrying supplies and personnel from Kuwait into Iraq, been promoted to SrA six months below the zone, and called upon to brief the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
This time she volunteered for a one year tour working with a Provisional Reconstruction Team (PRT) in Afghanistan. SrA Goodman was killed last week when her vehicle was struck by an improvised explosive device (IED). Her funeral was Tuesday in Indianapolis. The Wing took up a collection and flew the family here for yesterday’s memorial.
It started with a slide show presentation, a speech by her squadron commander (it was obvious she had made a positive impact on him and the unit), presentation of the Combat Service Medal and Purple Heart to her parents and several comments from squadron members. One squadron member sang a gospel tune that started eyes watering.
Then came the final roll call. Names of squadron members were called and answered until they came to her, silence. Her name was called again with more silence. Once more, still silence and then her full name followed by a 21 gun salute and taps. I challenge any of you to sit through that with a dry eye or after attending such a ceremony to ever hear taps again without a deeper sense of pride and commitment to those who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.
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